From Sin City to The Holy Land and Back Again

One really can’t get the full flavor of being in The Holy Land in less
than two weeks, but we do what we can when we have the opportunity to
go. And I wouldn’t have missed this trip for anything, regardless of
its brevity.
I’m not much of a world traveler — so far — but I did have the
experience and adventure of going on a cruise to the Mayan ruins
several years ago (right before Katrina hit) and I did get to live in
Kuwait with my late husband for a year back in the ’90s.
Which brings me up to an interesting bit of trivia, as it were. When
my recent traveling companion and I got to the security checkpoint on
our way to Tel-Aviv (there were actually seven of us considered the
Las Vegas contingent, but about 35 in all, give or take, from parts
far and wide, made up our whole group), I was pulled out of line and
questioned by an Israeli security guard as to my last name. They asked
me several questions, but upon learning that it is my late husband’s
name, not my family name, they then wanted to know how long he has
been deceased. More or less satisfied when I told them it was over ten
years, I still got the look, and there was some consultation with two
other officials at the checkpoint, but I finally was let through.
That’s what a Lebanese name gets you upon trying to enter Israel.
I found it rather interesting that I was never asked for any other bit
of identification than my passport no matter where I was or what the
purpose was for my being there. In this country, sometimes even the
place that issued you your I.D. doesn’t accept it as proof anymore. I
once had that happen at the DMV. And then there’s the State
Department. I’ve got to hand it to the passport people: Boy, do they
give you the once — and even the twice-over! Even though my passport
was originally issued to me in one name prior to my marriage to my
late husband, and THEY were the ones who added my name change to it (I
had to have it changed to reflect my then-husband’s last name before
they would let me use it), and I obviously had to give them all the
necessary documents for that name change to make it onto the passport,
they still put me through the passport wringer by telling me that
there was a problem because my current name was different from the
name on my birth certificate! (Duh!!) I think sometimes they overdo
the new paperwork requirements (post 9/11) because they somehow don’t
take good enough care of the original documentation and think that
it’s better to ask again, just in case one somehow now has all
different documents!
Anyway, I made several copies of it and all my documentation and
stashed it in several different locations, not wanting to take any
chances, since they cut it rather close in sending me my passport in
the first place: I got it back in the mail just four days before I
left for my trip. Oh, and they had to redo my passport photo because
they thought that maybe the three-concentric circles medallion I was
wearing (that showed up in the photo) might cause an incident in some
way because it could be interpreted as religious. Well, I just think
of those circles as standing for Truth, Beauty, and Goodness.
Interpret that as you will.
Things went smoothly enough up to Newark, NJ, (my old hometown, where
I was born) from which we were to hop the express to Tel-Aviv,
nonstop. We were all settled in — and psyched up — for our long, long
jaunt across the sea. That’s when it started. The periodic reports
about a “little” delay. First, it was just to tell us there was a
little delay. Then we would get reports about every 15 minutes or so
telling us an update on the fact that there was still a delay. Now
they were working on our patience and our dedication to go to Tel-Aviv
and insisting that we were still going to depart, that it wouldn’t be
too much longer. I remember at least two times — it could have been
three — when they suggested we might want to deplane to stretch our
legs or get a snack, but we would have to take all our baggage with
us. That seemed strange, but some people did leave the plane. Some
didn’t come back. But we were told we would eventually take off. It’s
not that we could have gone to the ticket counter and got another
plane leaving on time. There weren’t any others. So we sat it out —
although we did walk around inside the plane and chat with other
passengers.
The strangest excuse I’ve ever heard for any delay in a plane taking
off was offered to the passengers. It went something like this: “Well
folks, you know when there’s any kind of problem or delay, there’s
always a lot of paperwork to be filled out. So they’re working on that
right now!” Wow! After all these years of flying and suffering through
any number or type of delays, the report-demanding people in aviation
have still not been able to come up with shorter or easier-to-fill-out
forms that would enable an international flight to take off in a
timelier manner? What were they doing in that cockpit, we wondered.
After about eight hours, all the passengers were informed that the
plane would not be departing after all. We were now told that we HAD
to leave the plane. Well, what could we do but comply? The good news
is that we later discovered (from eavesdropping on those talking about
the situation after they got off the plane) that the pilot refused to
take off because he believed the plane was unsafe. Whether a balance
problem or an engine problem or whatever it was, better a pilot who
recognizes when it’s unsafe and is willing to cause all kinds of
unrest and misery among the passengers, than a pilot looking for those
good ol’ boy points of taking off on time, regardless of that possible
little glitch that could have meant doom to everyone aboard. I say
three cheers to the pilot, but not so to those who concocted that
paperwork story. A little honesty can go a long way. I highly
recommend that United personnel try for something closer to the truth.
Well, that was about the biggest glitch in our plans. We ended up
spending that night in a hotel in Newark, on United, and the next day
had to be rerouted through Paris to get to our destination. Some of us
even had to then spend the next night in Paris before finally getting
to Tel-Aviv. So all that delay meant we missed the first day or more
of the tour; we did not get to see Bethlehem, where Jesus was born.
And we did not have our checked baggage, which kind of got lost in the
shuffle of airplane changes, for three to five days, since it showed
up one piece at a time.
And that’s just the first lap of our flight! But a good time was had
by all, even though one of our little Las Vegas troupe needed a quick
trip to the emergency room in Newark. He was a fast healer, however,
and is practically as good as new.
I feel so very experienced now in world travel. But mostly, I feel so
blessed that I was able to go.
I wonder if anyone from The Holy Land ever thinks of visiting “Sin
City.” I’d guess that wouldn’t be what they’d tell their family. Thank
Goodness they can always use our city’s real name. And I doubt that
the “ruins” of this city — should there ever be any in the distant
future — would make anyone mistake it for a modern-day Holy Land. Las
Vegas! It is what it is! And I’m still glad to live here, sin or no
sin!
Maramis Choufani is the Managing Editor of the Las Vegas Tribune. She
writes a weekly column in this newspaper. To contact Maramis, email
her at maramis@lasvegastribune.com.

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